Who Is Simon Warwick

by Patricia Moyes

  “I. . .I don’t know. Perhaps a minute.”

  “With the door shut behind him?”

  “Well . . . yes. But it swings shut.”

  “Only a minute?”

  “Well. . . it could have been a little longer. I don’t know. I was doing my typing . . .” Susan was badly rattled. “There’ll be an explanation. Just ask Mr. Benson.”

  “I propose,” said Henry, “to do just that. Please wait in Mr. Quince’s office for a little longer, will you, Miss Benedict?” Harold Benson, Jr., was still in a state of tightly controlled shock when he arrived in the outer office to be interviewed. He confirmed in a quiet voice the simple facts about his letter from Ambrose Quince and his arrival at the office.

  Henry interrupted to say, “I understand this meeting was to bring you face to face with a rival claimant to Lord Charlton’s estate?”

  Benson flushed. “That’s what Quince said in his letter. I knew, of course, that the other man must be a fraud.”

  “Because you are Simon Warwick?”

  “Because I am Simon Warwick.”

  “So you had nothing to fear from this obvious impostor?” Benson shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He said, “I knew that he couldn’t be Simon Warwick, but I didn’t know what sort of claim he could possibly have made that would make Quince take him seriously. So of course I was a little worried. I was also very curious.”

  Henry said, “All right. Let’s get on. You went into the waiting room, closing the door behind you. Didn’t you see the body at once?”

  “Of course I did.”

  “Then—”

  “That’s to say, I saw this character sitting in the corner. Miss Benedict had told me that Mr. Finch had already arrived. I thought it was odd, because he appeared to be asleep.”

  “Asleep?”

  “Yeah. He was lying back in the armchair, with his newspaper over his face. I said, ‘Good morning,’ and he didn’t say anything. So I sat down, and looked at him again, and I thought, There’s something mightly peculiar about that guy. Could be he’s ill or passed out or something.’ So I went over and shook him by the shoulder and said, ‘Hey, Mr. Finch’ —and he just fell forward onto the floor, and the newspaper flew all around everywhere, and of course I could see then that he was dead. I was—well, I was appalled. I just rushed out and called Miss Benedict, and—well, I guess you know the rest.”

  “Mr. Benson,” Henry said, “had you ever met Mr. Finch before this morning?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You didn’t know him, even by sight?”

  “Certainly not. I tell you, I didn’t even know of his existence until I got Quince’s letter.”

  “Very well, Mr. Benson. Please leave your address with Inspector Reynolds. You’ll be staying in England for some time, I hope?”

  “You’re darned right I will. I’m staying until this business gets good and sorted out.”

  “The murder, you mean?”

  Benson looked surprised. “The murder? Hell, no. The will.”

  “You don’t think that what happened this morning—?”

  “What happened this morning,” said Benson angrily, “was a damn nuisance, but it was nothing to do with me. This guy who called himself Simon Finch—somebody obviously didn’t like him, and I’m not surprised, if he went around pressing fraudulent claims. So somebody killed him. That makes no difference to the fact that I am Simon Warwick, and I came over here to claim my inheritance, and by God I’m going to do it.”

  Henry said, “You must surely realize that you are in an awkward position, Mr. Benson. According to Miss Benedict, Mr. Finch went into the waiting room shortly before half-past nine. She was in the outer office all the time, and nobody else went in there until you did. And you were in there an appreciable time before—”

  “I’ve already explained that,” said Benson. “And I’d like to point out that this isn’t a locked-room mystery, Chief Superintendent. You must have noticed that there’s a door from Quince’s office into the waiting room and another out into the corridor—and they were both unlocked. Anybody could have walked in anytime between nine-thirty and ten and killed that guy and walked out again. I just had the bad luck to find him.”

  Henry said, “You know a lot about the office layout, Mr. Benson.

  “So does anybody who’s ever visited Quince. You’re ushered in via Miss Benedict and the waiting room, and when you leave, Quince shoots you straight out into the corridor from his office.” There was a little pause. Then Henry said, “By the way, did you have a newspaper with you when you arrived here this morning?”

  “No, I didn’t. I glanced at one over breakfast at the hotel, but I didn’t bring it with me.”

  When Harold Benson had gone, Henry—to Ambrose Quince’s mounting annoyance—asked Susan to come back into the office. She was most emphatic that Mr. Benson had not been carrying a newspaper. When it came to Mr. Finch, however, she hesitated.

  “Well, he must have had one, mustn’t he, because it was all over the place. This morning’s Times. And since Mr. Benson didn’t have one—”

  “There wouldn’t have been a copy in the waiting room for clients to read?”

  “Oh, no. Definitely not. So it must have been Mr. Finch’s.” Henry said, “You don’t sound absolutely sure, Miss Benedict.”

  “Well, I am.” Susan moved to the offensive. “Now I come to think of it, I remember distinctly. He had a newspaper under his arm.”

  Henry sighed. “Very well.”

  “Can I go now?”

  “You can go back to the other office. Don’t leave the building.” Ambrose Quince was brisk, businesslike, and in a curious way seemed to Henry to be almost pleased by the turn of events. He described his arrival at the office at five past ten—“Does them no harm to let them cool their heels for a few minutes”—his encounter with Susan and Benson, and the subsequent steps he had taken. Then he said, “Well, it all seems quite straightforward, doesn’t it, Tibbett?”

  “How do you mean?”

  Ambrose gave a little laugh. “I’m sorry. I should have put you in the picture sooner. The fact is that Simon Finch was the real Simon Warwick, beyond any shadow of doubt. I have a file in my office—naturally you’ll want to inspect it—which proves conclusively that we had found our missing heir. As a matter of fact, I gave a little dinner party at my house last week for the various people most closely concerned with Lord Charlton’s will, and told them that I was convinced that we had the right man, and that I intended to submit proof of his identity to a court of law.”

  Henry said, “Did you also tell them that your claimant was coming here this morning?”

  “Yes, I did. I told them that I intended to dispose of Mr. Harold Benson once and for all by confronting him with Simon Finch. For reasons which you will see when you study the file, I am convinced that Benson knew Finch as a boy and somehow got the passport from him.”

  “The passport?”

  “It’s all there in the file, Tibbett. Just take it from me that Finch was Simon Warwick and that Harold Benson is a very inefficient impostor. He possessed just one piece of purely circumstantial evidence to support his claim, and I suppose he hoped that Finch wouldn’t come forward with counter-evidence. When he got my letter and realized that we had rumbled him, he decided to take drastic action.”

  “Really?” said Henry.

  Quince appeared not to notice the interruption. He said, “Susan must have told you that Finch was under the impression that his appointment with me had been changed to half-past nine. Somebody must have got that message to him, and it’s obvious that the somebody was Benson. He made sure that Finch would get here well ahead of him, thus leaving a decent time interval in which somebody else might have done the killing. Then he arrived himself and did the job. Wouldn’t take any time for a man who knew what he was doing. Bertie Hamstone was a Commando during the war, and he’s often told me how quickly and quietly you could dispose of a man. Chop and choke, he calls
it. As soon as I saw Finch, I remembered what he’d said.”

  “Bertie Hamstone?”

  “My fellow executor on Charlton’s will. Banker at Sprott’s. Anyhow, Tibbett, if Benson believes that the field is clear now that his rival is out of the way, he is wrong. I have the proof that the late Simon Finch was in fact the late Simon Warwick, and I shall get that fact duly attested.”

  Henry said, “And what will happen to the money?”

  “Lord Charlton was quite definite on that point,” said Ambrose. “If Simon Warwick should be found to have died, the money would go to his eldest legitimate child. If he had no child, then we revert to the previous will. The money goes to charity. According to what he told me—and of course you’ll have to check this out—Simon Finch was unmarried. Therefore, the original will comes back into force, and many worthy causes will be the gainers.”

  “All the money goes to charity, does it, Mr. Quince?”

  “Oh, there are a few personal bequests . . . the largest is to Charlton’s personal secretary . . . his butler and chauffeur get a few thousand . . .”

  “And even those bequests are canceled under the new will?”

  “I’m afraid so,” said Ambrose. “I tried to persuade him to let them stand, but he was adamant.”

  “Just for the record,” Henry said, “what about you, Mr. Quince? Was there a bequest to you under the old will?”

  Ambrose grinned. “Certainly not, worse luck. No, I get my fee as executor and that’s that. Whoever the beneficiaries may be.”

  “Well,” Henry said, “I’d be grateful if you’d let me take away your file on Simon Warwick—that is, all the information you have on Simon Finch and Harold Benson. I’d also like a copy of the original will and a guest list of your dinner party.”

  Ambrose looked taken aback. “Surely you’re not suggesting—?” The same thought had occurred to him, but he had not expected Henry to latch on to it quite so fast.

  “I’m not suggesting anything,” said Henry. “Just trying to get a complete picture. By the way, Mr. Quince, did you bring a copy of the Times to the office with you this morning?”

  “Yes.” Ambrose was surprised. “I always do. I buy one every morning off the old newsvendor on the corner.”

  “Do you still have it?”

  “It must be in my office. If you’d care to look—”

  “Yes, if you don’t mind, Mr. Quince. I’d like to.”

  Ambrose gave Henry a quizzical look, but all he said was, “Better go via the corridor. I think your chaps are still busy in the waiting room.”

  Susan Benedict and Harold Benson were sitting in Ambrose’s office, chatting and looking considerably more relaxed now that their interviews with the police were over, at least for the time being. However, they stopped talking abruptly as Ambrose and Henry came into the room. On the desk between them lay an unopened copy of the Times.

  “There it is,” said Ambrose. “Just where I left it. I remember now putting it down on the desk before I went into the waiting room.”

  Instinctively, all eyes went to the newspaper. Then Henry said, “So the paper which was all over the waiting room must have been Mr. Finch’s.”

  “Or Mr. Benson’s,” said Ambrose, without looking at Harold.

  Easily, Henry said, “Miss Benedict seems to recall that you weren’t carrying a newspaper when you arrived this morning, Mr. Benson. Is that correct?”

  Susan nodded vigorously, and Benson said, “Quite correct. I told you already.”

  “Then it must have been Finch’s,” Ambrose said.

  “Or somebody’s,” said Henry. “Well, I don’t think I need detain you gentlemen any longer. We have your addresses, and I’m afraid we shall have to bother you again, so don’t leave town without letting us know. And now I’d like a final word with Miss Benedict.”

  “Again?” Ambrose did not sound pleased.

  “Just to cross-check a couple of points,” said Henry, with an amiable vagueness that deceived nobody.

  Quince and Benson glared at each other and took their leave, Ambrose standing back with exaggerated politeness to let the American go through the door first. Then he paused and said, “You’ll lock up as usual, will you, Susan?”

  Henry said, “I’m afraid my people will be here for some time more, Mr. Quince. Fortunately tomorrow is Sunday. I hope that by Monday we can restore your office to you for normal working. Meanwhile, I’m afraid we must keep the keys.”

  “Oh, very well,” said Ambrose. “The Chief Superintendent would like to take all the Simon Warwick files and a copy of Lord Charlton’s original will, Susan. Please let him have them.”

  “Yes, Mr. Quince.”

  “As for the guest list,” Ambrose added, “ my wife will have all the details. Where should she send them?”

  “If it’s convenient,” Henry said, “I could call this afternoon and pick them up. I have the address—in Ealing, isn’t it?”

  “Certainly, my dear fellow. It’ll be a pleasure.”

  As soon as the door had closed behind Ambrose, Susan jumped up and said, “I’ll get those files for you now, Chief Superintendent.”

  “In a moment, Miss Benedict. There’s something I want to ask you first. Mr. Finch lived in Westbourne, didn’t he?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You had his address and telephone number?”

  “Yes, of course. It’s all on the file. Well, it wasn’t exactly a telephone number.”

  “Not a telephone number?”

  “What I mean is, it wasn’t his own telephone. He lived in a sort of boardinghouse, you see, and the landlady took messages if he wasn’t in.”

  “I see. Now, I want you to think hard. Who knew Mr. Finch’s telephone number?”

  Susan frowned. “Well, I did, of course, and Mr. Quince could have got it from my book. And I suppose all Mr. Finch’s friends in ^Westbourne and his family and—”

  Henry held up his hand. “No, no,” he said. “What I’m getting at is this. Did anybody outside this office ask you for Mr. Finch’s number?”

  “Oh, no. Well, that is, not really.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Well, you said ‘outside this office,’ and after all Mr. Hamstone’s the other executor of Lord Charlton’s will, which makes him—” Henry said, “Mr. Hamstone of Sprott’s Bank?”

  “That’s right. Mr. Bertram Hamstone. Such a nice gentleman. Well, him being the other executor, like I said, we’re in touch with him a great deal. It must have been the day before yesterday, Mr. Hamstone’s office called and asked for Mr. Finch’s telephone number. They had his address, you see, but no phone number, and of course it wouldn’t be in the book under Finch, not being his own telephone.”

  Henry said, “You say that Mr. Hamstone’s office called. What does that mean? Whom did you actually speak to?”

  “Oh, I don’t know his name. A man. Sounded a bit like an American—there’s a lot of them work at Sprott’s. He just said he was Mr. Hamstone’s office and could I give him Mr. Finch’s number.”

  “And you did.”

  “Well, of course. It wasn’t a secret, was it?”

  “No,” said Henry. “No, of course it wasn’t. Well, if you can find me those files, you can get along home. I’m afraid this has been a distressing experience for you, Miss Benedict.”

  “Oh, not really.” Susan was being brisk and efficient, as Mr. Quince would have wanted her to be. “After all, I didn’t really know Mr. Finch. It wasn’t as if it was a friend.”

  “That’s the sensible way to look at it,” said Henry, with a smile.

  7

  That afternoon, while Henry sat in his office studying the file on the Simon Warwick affair, Detective Inspector Derek Reynolds set off to drive down to Westbourne, while Detective Sergeant Hawthorn—the third member of Henry’s personal team—set about trying to check who might have been seen going into the office building on Theobald’s Road between nine and ten that morning.


  Hawthorn had little success. It seemed that, since it was Saturday, neither the doorman nor the elevator attendant had been on duty. The front door was left open from 9 a.m. to 6 p.m. for the convenience of eccentrics like Ambrose Quince who chose to work on Saturdays. At six o’clock, the burglar alarms were set and the building locked until Monday morning.

  The only crumb of evidence that Hawthorn could unearth came from the newspaper seller on the corner—a small, cheerful Cockney. He knew Mr. Quince well, and he’d sold him a paper that morning at the usual time, ten o’clock sharp. Regular as clockwork was Mr. Quince. Well, no, not every Saturday, but every weekday and quite often Saturdays as well, like this morning. Other than this small corroborative detail, Hawthorn drew a blank. Saturday morning was different. The weekday behavior patterns were broken. People were not in their accustomed places, and the street was full of strangers.

  Inspector Reynolds had better luck. Even though the helpful sergeant at the Westbourne police station could tell him nothing about Simon Finch, he did recognize the address of Finch’s lodgings. Yes, that was Mrs. Busby and he knew her quite well. Not that she’d ever been in trouble with the police—goodness me, no. A widow—a nice, motherly sort of woman. She let out rooms, mostly to single gentlemen. The sergeant knew her because she’d been into the station a couple of times—once when she was worried about one of her lodgers, a young boy who didn’t show up for a couple of days, and another time to report her dog lost. Cocker spaniel, it was. Turned up on the beach the next day. The young man had turned up, too—he’d been in London on a spree. Well, Inspector Reynolds could see the sort of person she was—a kindly soul. She was certainly going to be upset when she heard about Mr. Finch.

  The officer was right. Mrs. Busby sat in her neat front room, dabbing ineffectively at her eyes with a damp handkerchief, and repeating over and over again, “I can’t believe it. Mr. Finch—dead and murdered! I just can’t believe it.”

  “I’m afraid it’s true, madam,” said Reynolds. “That’s why we’re trying to find out all we can about him. I hope you can help us.”

  “Help you?” Mrs. Busby blew her nose—a small, pudgy nose now reddened with weeping, which sat like a cherry in the center of her pale, plump face. “I don’t see how I can help you. I don’t know anything about Mr. Finch.”